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I recently went to see a psychic. Actually, I went to see two.
I had a tarot card reading with one and past-life reading with another.
Before anyone rolls their eyes — let’s get a few things straight. This is not my first rodeo. I’ve been to psychics before and I am perfectly capable of reading my own cards…or yours.
We were in Salem, there was a carnival atmosphere and I knew the readings would be fun. The psychics are there for the tourists. They might very well be the genuine article, in fact — I’m pretty sure my tarot card reader had some major woo-woo going on — but for the most part, they are going to give you the good stuff. Entertainment, happy, joy-joy shit. If they find some shadows lurking — it would be bad for business to overshare.
The past-life-reading psychic knew I was a nurse. I swear to Goddess, I have it imprinted in Psychic-Read-Only ink on my forehead. They. All. Know. I might as well just wear My Ye Olde Nursing Cap right on in. She did mention one past life I couldn’t fathom, however — never in a thousand lifetimes could I see myself in Lady Guinevere’s Court. Unless I was there in attendance to Morgan Le Fey. But some of the other lives seemed plausible.
The tarot card reader did a spectacular job. He covered issues in my life which were questions just hanging around in my subconscious, but they…
